


there is very little left of me

by orphan_account



Category: DreamSMP
Genre: Aftermath, Comfort, DreamSMP - Freeform, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Ghosts, Minecraft, Post-Canon, Post-War, Regret, Short & Sweet, it could be schlattbur if you squint, l'manberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Wilbur turned his head away from the other, looking back out. ".. Schlatt, right?"Schlatt, the person who he had identified, gave a single chuckle, head bobbing with a nod. "Yeah, that's me. You really fucked this place up, Will."".. I.. know. I barely.. remember this, I barely remember anything, but.. I know I messed up."
Kudos: 88





	there is very little left of me

**Author's Note:**

> ship personas and characters, not creators!!  
> enjoy the read :D

When Wilbur had pressed the button, he had been acting on the white hot rage that had been silently branded deep within him.

But the second he heard the explosions, all his emotions plummeted. Like pouring water into a hot pan, regret sizzled against his rage until it was dulled down to a remorseful sorrow. Once he witnessed what he had done, feeling how his body had tensed from standing next to the explosion, smelling the gunpowder in the air, the reality of it all was too much.

He looked towards his father, the winged man who had watched him detonate the eleven and a half stacks of TNT, and begged him for death.

It only took a small cycle of pleading before Wilbur felt a sword push upwards through his stomach, a hand on his shoulder from it's owner. The last words he heard was his father telling him to be good wherever he may end up. Wilbur only felt sadness at Phil's teary eyes, the emotion nearly overpowering the feeling of his body giving in to death.

And then all of the emotion was gone.

The rage, the insanity, the remorse, the sadness and pain. All gone.

The second he opened his eyes to the same world he had known before death, covered in a greyscale like something out of a movie, he finally felt calm for the first time in months. He tried to find his reflection everywhere he could, but seeing himself in mirrors had become a thing of the past. Not even the water dared reflect back to him. The only clue he had to his appearance was that his hand, beneath the yellow jumper he had pulled to his wrist, had been greyed out just like the rest of the world.

He found his way up to the old podium- The spot where blurry memories of events took place. Wilbur remembered standing up here for the election, upon oak plank that looked over seats where the citizens of his country poured in. Vaguely, he recalled that he had won that election. And then the memory tapered out, ending slowly and softly like a song playing to it's end rather than quick and abrupt like he figured his failing memories would go. The stage was not nearly as pretty now, nor was the view. Only half of the wooden area remained, rough edges on all sides from the blast that had torn the land in two, none of the decorations or extra flourish having survived the disaster. The spot where citizens used to sit waiting for updates on the status of their land was nothing more than a crater before him as his shoes fell softly against splintered plank.

Wilbur sat on the edge of the half-there stage, looking over the mess that he was only vaguely aware he caused. A bubble of regret rose in his chest, but it wasn't enough to tamp down the overwhelming calm his death had brought him. For just a moment, he lost himself in the silence, taking in a breath that smelled of gunpowder, death, and the flowers that managed to stay untouched by fury and flame. His thoughts were broken by the sound of someone struggling up the stone that held up the stage, a few accented swears leaving the new person's mouth as he pulled himself onto the splintered wood. Dress shoes took loud footfalls against the surface, until the man stood next to Wilbur, looking over the same view with his arms crossed. Much like Wilbur, this new person was almost entirely greyscale. The only colour on him was a red tie around his neck.

Wilbur turned his head away from the other, looking back out. ".. Schlatt, right?"

Schlatt, the person who he had identified, gave a single chuckle, head bobbing with a nod. "Yeah, that's me. You really fucked this place up, Will."

".. I.. know. I barely.. remember this, I barely remember anything, but.. I know I messed up."

Schlatt gave a thoughtful hum in response to that, shifting to sit on the edge with the other ghost. "Honestly, I don't think you messed anything up. At least you didn't die of a heart attack in the middle of a war-" He teased, nudging the other with his elbow. Wilbur laughed, "Going out with a literal bang is way better than that, agreed-"

"Don't get cocky, now." Schlatt warned, gaining an apology from the Englishman.

They sat and talked for a long time. About the war the Wilbur could barely remember, Schlatt's time as president, their favourite memories, and everything in between. By the time they found themselves quieting down, the sun had just set, setting loose many kinds of monsters in the world. Wilbur almost missed the thrill of having to run, but now the mobs looked past them as if they were just another being to fear in the night. He threw a glance to the side as he heard Schlatt lay back on the stage, but chose to keep looking at the crater of a country instead.

"Do you think you were a bad person?" Schlatt muttered.

".. I think I used to. But.. not now. Not here. I can say that I wasn't the best, but I was a product of everything happening around me. I was broken, I think. But broken doesn't mean bad." Wilbur replied, each word he said emphasizing the calm he now felt. Schlatt could see the difference, and it made him hurt a bit. Wilbur really had a good soul, and war had fucked him over. Schlatt's pity was interrupted by a returned, "Do you think you were?"

Schlatt sighed heavily, shutting his eyes and tracing his fingers over the marbling of the wood beneath him. "I think I _am_ a bad person. I think i've been corrupted and fucked up since I was young and that all i'm good for is hurting people. I think that.. i'm a greedy pig who cares about no one but himself and hurts everyone around him because of it. Tubbo. Quackity. Your son. _You and Tommy_. I think i'm a piece of shit, Will."

Wilbur nodded, softly leaning back until his back was against the wood, too. ".. The fact that you know you hurt people and you are showing regret makes you a little less of a bad person, I think. And.. I personally think you're judging yourself too hard, too. You.. were a product of what was around you, just like I was. And I remember the festival very fondly, before my memory gives out at Tubbo's speech.. You looked so happy. You were having fun."

"The festival was damn fun." Schlatt admitted, chuckling. The smile didn't last, falling to a sigh that carried a lifetime worth of stress. Schlatt was giving in to the calm. ".. I guess, overall, i'm the most confused as to how you can lay here with me and talk like we're old friends when both of us can admit we were enemies."

"Because I think that we both needed room to grow, and I think that this is it. We're.. dead, Schlatt. We're gone. Anything that happened before this, any damage we had done is completely out of our hands now. All that is here from now on is us. And I.. would understand if you don't forgive me, but I forgive you. With my whole heart."

"I don't have one of those, Alex ate it." Schlatt laughed. Then half-turned to Will, finally bearing what seemed like a genuine smile. "Fuck it. I forgive you too, man. Wanna watch these fucks rebuild a nation together?"

"Nothing would make me happier than that, Schlatt. Of course."


End file.
